


Five Times Blackwood's Coat Wins the Argument

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:10:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coward's evolving opinions on Blackwood's coat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Blackwood's Coat Wins the Argument

**Author's Note:**

> A belated fill for the my kink bingo square of 'leather'.

The first time Coward sees Henry in the coat, he hates it.

He _hates_ it. 

"You look like a highwayman," he says, disdainfully, and Henry gives him a faint smile. "That's not a compliment. You look like a criminal, like a worker."

Henry gives him a larger smile this time, clearly pleased with himself. "It's dramatic," he corrects. 

"It's plebeian," Coward counters. "No one will follow a man in such a terrible coat."

Henry _laughs_ at him. "It's warm. And have you seen Aleister's robes recently?" 

Neither are points Coward can really argue, unfortunately. 

*

The fifth time Coward sees Henry in the coat, it's cold. 

They're out in the countryside in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a gray, cold drizzle, trying to complete one of the yearly rituals. It's all standing and waiting and Coward standing in for the sacrifice and so he's stuck in robes that were designed to look pretty, and they do nothing against the sharp wind or the rain dragging them down. 

He's cold and wet and miserable and he's gritting his teeth every time a blast of wind cuts through him and he has a good two hours left to go and his bloody nose is running. 

And then, quite suddenly, he is not. He looks up from his furious glaring at the dirt, into Henry's eyes. 

"You'll freeze yourself," he says, as Henry settles his stupid coat a little snugger around Coward's shoulders. 

"Not as much as you already are," Henry says with shake of his head. 

Coward really can't bring himself to argue more; the coat is far too big, the hem brushing the ground and though he's not even bothering to put his arms actually in the sleeves, he knows they'd overhang his fingertips by inches. It's still ugly and tacky and he knows he must look ridiculous huddled in it. 

But it's warm, and it smells like leather and Henry, so he clutches it a little closer and spends the remaining hours in not nearly as much discomfort. 

*

The tenth time Coward sees Henry in the coat – tenth, or eleventh, or possibly fifteen, he's starting too lose count – it's dark.

Henry has him pushed up against the brick wall of some filthy little back alley, dizzy with power and hands still streaked with dried blood, kissing him raw and hungry and demanding. One hand is braced on the wall beside Coward's head while the other is clawing at his belt, sliding chilled fingers through the curled hair leading downward. Coward shivers and huffs a small breath, a small moan, into Henry's mouth, his own hands sliding up under the warmth of Henry's coat, clutching against the silk and cotton of his clothes in frustration. 

Henry's coat curls around Coward, envelopes him as Henry presses closer, lowers his mouth to worry at the skin of Coward's neck, little breaths of cold air hit his skin as the coat moves. There's hardly any light, the matte of the leather soaks up the faint glow of distant streetlamps; Henry's hand pulling at him roughly, and Coward's head falls back as he gasps pale breaths into the cool air. It's as though he's being touched by the night itself. 

*

The – Coward's completely lost count how many, many times he's seen Henry in the coat.

"Leave it on," he whispers, and Henry smirks at him. Laughs. 

"I thought you hated it," he says, but leaves it on all the same. 

It's cool against his skin as Henry slides into him, bends over his back and presses his mouth to base of Coward's neck as he bows his head. It slides along his sides, smooth and slightly textured and sticking lightly to him as he sweats, moans, arches his back into Henry's thrusts. "Harder," he gasps, and Henry obliges, the faint sound of leather squeaking almost covered by the wet sounds of fucking, of Henry's flesh hitting his. The coat moves with him, opening wider before closing around Coward, like wings, as though he's being fucked by some angelic creature. 

Henry shudders, muffles a groan against the skin of Coward's back, hips stuttering to a stop. Coward whines and presses back, wanting, his cock hanging heavy and aching until Henry reaches around and grasps him, and it only takes a few sharp strokes before he's coming himself. He falls onto his stomach, Henry a heavy weight on top of him, both dazed and sated. Henry slides out of him, but not off, and Coward finds himself content to remain here with Henry within the warm, humid cocoon of the coat. 

*

The next time Coward sees - 

The last time Coward - 

The coat is flapping in the breeze, dramatic as always, twisting in the wind as it hangs from the bridge, just another part of the city's skyline. The coat, and that which fills it. 

And that which fills it is gone.


End file.
